believe it. Saturn, ringed for centuries by
her own shattered moon, nowhere she can look
without seeing it. How often she tries
to will off her own gravity, send the pieces out
into the dark elsewhere. But knows
she can’t or won’t. What becomes
her halo, prayer-wheel, memory laden hula-hoop. Owned
and by. Spell-spun, perpetually dizzy. Some early morning
a neighbour coasts by says looking good sweetheart
and it takes her all she can to look him in the eye and
